


Curious About Leather

by helens78



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: 1970s, Alternate Universe - recent history, Boot Worship, Dominance/submission, First Time, M/M, One of My Favorites, POV First Person, Phone Sex, Retro
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-06-16
Updated: 2005-06-16
Packaged: 2017-10-05 20:01:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/45555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helens78/pseuds/helens78
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the mid-'70s, and Viggo runs a newsstand.  There's this blond guy who keeps coming around and looking at the dirty magazines...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Curious About Leather

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mrkinch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrkinch/gifts).



> Many thanks to [Travis](http://archiveofourown.org/users/kyuuketsukirui) for the beta, and [Ruth](http://archiveofourown.org/users/telesilla) for some moderate '70s-picking. I was hoping to capture the flavor of those old gay smut books with this one, and while I chickened out of using the word "tits", beware; I didn't chicken out of much else. ;)

This guy's been coming to the newsstand a lot lately. He comes, he browses, he looks around like he's gonna get caught stealing something. The thing is, he's not a shoplifter. I watch him real close -- hell, I was watching him close before I noticed the funny behavior -- and I can guarantee that he's not walking away with stuff. It seems like he's just coming to look, and looking makes him nervous.

This would all make sense if he were sixteen. But he's not that, either. He's got to be at least mid-twenties. I wouldn't peg him at older than twenty-seven. Still, he's not a teenager, so I don't know what's got him so itchy. He's gotta have something behind all this, a story; it's not just that he's in the dirty magazines section.

Oh. Shit. Looks like he just caught me looking at him. Jumped half a foot, blushed red to the roots of his hair, and now -- oh, this is interesting. Now he's got a _Playboy_ and here he comes, up to the counter.

"Hey," I say, glancing at the cover and telling him how much he owes for it. He tosses some coins on the counter and nods, still so red even the tips of his ears are glowing. He mumbles something -- holy shit, he's got an _accent_ \-- and off he goes.

He forgot the _Playboy_.

* * *

He's back today. Fuck, he's really cute. I don't tell him he forgot his _Playboy_ last time he was here. He'd probably mumble again and trot off, and I like looking at him.

He's about my height. Not quite six feet. He's built medium, not a weightlifter, not a skinny guy. He's got blond hair, which explains the blush. And I wouldn't have known this until he came up to the counter last time, but his eyes are green. I'd have guessed blue. Goes with the blond hair. But I like the green just fine.

He dresses pretty nice. Levi's, a t-shirt, a leather jacket that he's obviously had at least five years; it's all faded and broken in along the edges. I think it used to be black, but it's brown now. You _could_ tuck a magazine into that thing, but like I said, he never has.

It's almost closing time, but I don't want to kick him out. I'm curious about all kinds of things.

So I sneak up while he's absorbed in the magazine he's reading and I almost blow it when I figure out which one it is. He's staring at a picture of a leatherman and his boy. Oh, fuck, yeah. _Nice._

He whips his head around like a hawk and jumps again when he notices I'm looking.

"Sorry," he says, stuffing the magazine back, but he ends up ripping the cover half off and cursing, blushing red as he hands it over to me. "Fuck. Guess I'll take this one home, huh?"

"Yeah," I tell him, "it's a pretty hot one. Nice scene near the front with--" and I lower my voice, realizing this might be freaking him out some, "with some boot worship."

"Some...?" If it's possible, he goes even more crimson. It's a beautiful color on him.

"Never mind; you'll see it." I walk up to the counter with him, ring up the magazine and wait for a receipt to print out. "Anyway, I see you around here a lot. You new in town?"

"Not really," he says, "just, um. A few months."

"Actor?" I guess, scribbling my name and number on the receipt. Here's hoping he won't notice until later. I tuck it into the magazine.

"Yeah," he says, and it seems to relax him, getting into the groove of a normal conversation like this. "What about you?"

I give him a look. "I run a newsstand."

"But aside from that?"

I grin. Not many people would think to ask.

"Some of this, some of that. I write some poetry, paint a little, take some pictures, play some jazz."

"Nice," he says. "I like jazz."

"That's cool." I slide the magazine over to him. "You gonna come back now that you've got one to take home with you?"

He goes scarlet again, shifting his weight from side to side. "Dunno," he mumbles, and he heads off again.

* * *

Paydirt! The phone rings that night.

"Hello?"

"Hi, this is -- you wouldn't even know my name. Um. This is Sean. From. From the newsstand?"

I chuckle. He sounds so _earnest._ "Hi, Sean. This is Viggo."

"Viggo." He rolls it off his tongue and I could come on the spot. "Never heard that one before. Never seen it, either. Wondered how to pronounce it."

"It's Danish. Actually, it's kinda old-fashioned in Denmark."

"Sounds pretty exotic here, though."

Now _this_ sounds promising. "Yeah?" I ask, plopping myself down on a kitchen chair.

"Yeah, um. So. You were saying about... I found the thing you were looking for. Talking about. In the front?"

"The boot worship thing?" I look through magazines until I find the one he walked off with today, paging through until I find the scene in question. It _is_ hot, a very pretty boy on the ground, tongue on leather. The boy's a blond. The guy's got a mustache like mine.

"Yeah." Sean clams up for a few seconds, but I'm not giving up on him that easy. I'll stick it out. "So... you like that sort of thing?" he asks.

I didn't have time to write _newly trained topman, just got his leathers, would love to see that blush when your shirt's off and you're jerking off for me_ on the receipt. Just the number and my name. "I like that sort of thing," I tell him.

"I've never done it," he says, not that I couldn't guess. "Is it... does it feel good?"

"Which end do you want to be on?"

Another several seconds of quiet, then a small voice, almost a squeak. "Say I. Say I wanted to. Wanted. Say I wanted to be the boy. The one licking boots. Would it feel good?"

Man, that tone... fuck. I remember when I felt the way he sounds. Nervous and hoping I wouldn't fuck anything up and with my cock so hard I thought it was gonna explode.

"Sean?"

"Yeah?"

"You somewhere private?"

"Yeah."

"No windows open, nothing like that?"

He chuckles this time, and it sounds a little nervous. "No."

"How would you feel about getting your meat out and stroking it for me?"

"Fuck." That _is_ a squeak, and I'm surprised he doesn't drop the phone. But then he comes back, and his voice is breathy, and he says "okay" and just like that I'm tucking the phone against my shoulder and getting my own pants open, whipping it out and squeezing. _Hell_ yeah.

It's a few seconds before I can hear him groan, then picture his throat moving as he swallows and drags up a little more courage. "I... okay... I've got it out," he says softly. "I've got my hand on it."

"Nice," I tell him. "You cut or no?"

"No," he says. "Is that all right?"

"It's fine. It's fine. I just wanted to picture it." I want more than that, want to know if it's fat or thin, long or short, how it fits in his hand, but no -- it's enough that he's even agreeing to do this for me, let alone make him give me all that.

But damn, this boy... "It's about seven inches hard," he says, sound like he's blushing through every word. "Thick enough I can't get my fingers around it, quite. I usually jerk off with my palm rubbing up underneath."

"God, that sounds good," I tell him, and I give him a little groan to let him know how much I'm enjoying the sound of his voice. I bet his dick's not that big, but this is phone sex; we're allowed to exaggerate. And fuck me. He's got a gorgeous voice, low, and that _accent_. British but with a hint of something in it. Wonder what part of England he's from. He doesn't sound like the Beatles, anyway. "Go ahead and beat off for me. Just like you would if I weren't listening."

"Oh... okay," he breathes. "'Til I come?"

_I fucking want one,_ I think, but I'm tamping down the impulse as soon as I think it. _Down, boy._ "No, just tell me when you're close and back off," I tell him, starting to pound my own as I'm talking. "I wanna hear it when you know you're gonna go over any minute."

"Okay," he says again. And he starts doing it; I can't hear his hand on his dick, but I hear the way his breathing changes, the soft groans and moans that he probably doesn't even make when it's him on his own. But it's not him on his own. He's doing it for me. And that probably makes all the difference in the world.

It's not very long, which doesn't surprise me. We're doing this for the first time; he's probably been nervous and hard all night from thinking about that magazine. "Okay, I'm close," he says, panting.

"Good boy," I tell him. I squeeze my own dick, grinning and thinking about what he must look like, what he's wearing right now. Did he take his shirt off before he called? What does his chest hair look like? Are his nipples bright pink or lighter, or are they closer to tan? "Try holding on a little longer. Give yourself another stroke."

He does, and groans right afterwards. Oh, yeah, he's close. He's so fucking hot, this boy. "Please," he says, "feels so good, now? Please?"

_Unhh._ I could just about come from listening to that. "Yeah," I whisper, "go on, shoot--"

The minute I say it he's coming, probably shooting all over his hand and his thighs -- man, I hope he's still got those jeans on, I want to imagine his load all over denim like that -- and it lasts a good long while. Holy shit, a while. Fuck, all that come all over the place -- oh, shit --

I come, too, but it's not as long and twice as loud. For a few seconds I don't worry about freaking the kid out; I just _do it_. And it feels so good. I'm going to be cleaning up the table later, but damn is that good. I lick my lips, pant my breath into shape. Fuck.

"Good boy," I pant. "Such a good fucking boy."

"Jesus, that was hot." Sean groans. "Got come all over me, though."

"Yeah... me too..." I collapse against the back of the chair, which, given how cheap my chairs are, isn't at all comfortable. "Jesus, yeah, that was good."

He's quiet for a while, but I assume that's just to clean up some. Maybe he's got some tissues handy. Lucky him if he does. All I've got is this morning's coffee and toast in front of me. Oops.

"You work tomorrow night?" he asks.

"Yeah, but only 'til six. You wanna get together?"

"Would you?" Sean asks softly. "I mean... if you want..."

"Hell, yes, I want," I tell him firmly. "Tell you what. If you bring the lube, I'll fuck you into next Tuesday -- and if you want, I can do it while you're tied up."

"Fuck," Sean blurts out. "I... okay," he says, "but if I'm going back to your place like that, I... I should know where you live, huh? You want to give me your address?"

I give it to him, and I wonder if he was really asking for his own benefit or if he's getting it written down to pass to a friend in case something goes wrong. It'd be a smart thing if he were doing something like that. You never know for sure who you're running into, not if you've just met him at a newsstand and jerked off over the phone with him.

"When?" he asks. "Six?"

"Come by six-thirty and bring dinner with you. There's Chinese right downstairs from me. Anything you want."

"Sure," he says. He seems a lot less nervous now, not that that oughta surprise me.

"Anything else you need to know?"

"Um. You do the top part?" he asks softly.

"I do the top part," I tell him. And even though it won't mean anything to him, it means something to me, so I tell him the rest: "I just got my leathers recently. Like last month."

"Oh," he says, trying to sound like he knows what that means. "That's great. So you'd, um. You'd take care of me?"

"Fuck, yeah." I bet he can hear the grin -- shit, I hope it doesn't scare him off. Oh, well, the guy pleaded with me to let him come tonight; I bet not much is going to scare him off.

"Then that's good," he says. "I need to ring off, I want to clean up, but -- tomorrow, six-thirty, I'll bring food."

"Perfect," I tell him. "Good night, Sean."

"Good night, Viggo."

We hang up, and I stand up and stretch. They've got to invent better ways of jerking off over the phone. Maybe better chairs in the kitchen would help. But this was good even if it was a little bit uncomfortable.

I've got some spring in my step as I head into the bathroom. This one, this one's hungry for it. I can't wait to see what he'll do.

_-end-_


End file.
